


in the region of the summer star

by kirkaut



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt Eggsy, Lee lives!, M/M, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5822785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkaut/pseuds/kirkaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't go into the woods alone, everyone tells him.</p><p>Eggsy doesn't see why not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the region of the summer star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paxdracona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paxdracona/gifts).



> written for the prompt by Paxdracona: "Harry's some sort of forest deity, and he's vicious when people come onto his land with bad intentions. When Eggsy got lost as a tiny kid, Harry comforted and entertained him and led him back to the right path. Years later Eggsy makes a mad dash onto the same lands, pursued by Dean's gang. And they have LOTS of bad intentions :}"
> 
> I went slightly off the rails with this one, as you can tell by the word count. I hope you enjoy!

To the east of Buckingham Palace, there lay a sprawling mass of marshland and forest, cut through by the Tyburn and almost eerily untouched, despite the thousands of years of development that swelled and displaced the land surrounding it.

It's been said, in the great expanse of Britain's history, that in the still early decades of the sixteenth century, King Henry VIII made an attempt to purchase the land and claim it as his own.

“You mustn't,” urged the grounds keeper at Eton, who had taken it upon himself to care for the sacred boundaries of the forest. “It is forbidden, sire, and I fear they will not allow you entry into even the barest copse of trees.”

The King had bristled, scoffed, and ignored any and all attempts to forestall his intentions. “A mere wives-tale,” he had insisted, despite the prickle of unease that rose on the back of his neck. “There are no such spirits in the woods, and I will do with the land as I please.”

He was very quickly proven wrong on the morning he and his troupe of surveyors approached the edges of the land, and were greeted by a serene looking gentleman, dressed in a nobleman's clothing and wearing the royal crest upon himself, emerging from a dark pocket between the trees. In his hand, he wielded an intricate looking walking stick. As the King and his party approached the stranger, weapons drawn and at the ready, he calmly lifted his stick and thumped the bottom of it against the ground.

The blades of grass ruffled in a wave around the party's feet, thick and twining vines sprouting up suddenly from beneath the fertile earth and wrapping around their legs, until they were encased up to their hips and suddenly, completely, immobile.

“Sorcerer!” the King hissed, struggling amidst the bulky finery of his wardrobe. The vines tightened their grip and slipped up his body until his elbows were trapped firmly against his sides. “I'll see you hanged! Your head upon a pyre, you damned devil—”

A vine had slipped across his mouth, silencing him.

“Now then,” the stranger said, stepping further into the light, jauntily swinging his walking stick beside him. “May we put such unpleasant shows of aggression behind us, and come to an understanding?” His eyebrows raised expectantly.

The King gave a jerky, furious nod of consent after a moment or two of forcibly silent deliberation, and the vine slipped free of his mouth. “Who are you?” he demanded on a rasping breath, cheeks blotched with anger and fear.

The man gave a contemplative hum as he circled the group, not appearing even the slightest bit wary about incapacitating a King and his people. “I am one of many,” he revealed, tone light. “One of those who guard this realm far better than any mortal man or woman could manage. We've been tasked for many years—much longer than you or your family have ever walked upon these grounds—to protect this territory. We have aligned ourselves with you and your kin, joining powers to keep this land you call Britain safe. What you see behind me is a sacred land, full of power meant for those worthy enough to wield it. So you must realise,” he said, coming to a halt in front of the King, hands clasped amiably atop his walking stick, “that I can allow none with ill intent to cross upon its borders.”

“You dare give orders to a King?” one of his men had spluttered, as a sense of dawning awe came upon Henry. The vines released him, as if sensing his understanding, and he took two faltering steps forward before dropping into a kneel, crowned head bowing in reverence. “Sire!” the same fool cried out, struggling against his restraints. “What are you doing?”

The King lifted his head and gazed upon the calm nobleman, and began to speak in the ancient prayer passed down to him from generations long past. The words tripped clumsily off of his tongue, having long since gone unsaid. “I bind unto myself today the virtues of the starlit heaven, the glorious sun's life giving ray, the whiteness of the moon at even, the flashing of the lightning free, the whirling wind's tempestuous shocks, the stable earth, the deep salt sea, around the old eternal rocks.”

He swallowed against the dry lump in his throat as the man smiled kindly down at him. “I bind unto myself the Name, the strong name of...the Kingsmen.”

 

ooo

 

The first time Eggsy wanders into the Kingsman forest, he's seven years old and chasing after a football his father and his friends had kicked too hard, too far, until they sent it tumbling past the tree line. Despite their cries of warning, their urgent calls for him not to chase after it once it had disappeared into the forest, Eggsy churns his little legs a bit harder, until the open park gave way to the thicket.

Don't go into the woods alone, everyone tells him. Eggsy doesn't see why not.

A fissure of heat runs over his face as he huffs and puffs and runs, but it's a soothing warmth, like Dad's arm across his shoulder or Mum's hugs. He jumps over the brush, kicking up leaves with his trainers and grinning at the crunch of them beneath his feet. The ball rolls steadily away on the slight downhill slope, bouncing over branches and ricocheting off the trees. He can hear his dad's cries of his name behind him, growing steadily more faint as he goes deeper and deeper into the mysterious land.

He's not sure how long he chases after the football but it feels like ages, and by the time the ball stops rolling fast enough for him to catch up to it and pick it up, cradling it against his jumper, the trees and quickly setting autumn sun are beginning to shroud him in darkness from every side.

He can't hear his dad calling for him any longer.

Eggsy clutches the football closer to himself, hugging it tightly as he spins in circles, panic swelling quickly inside as he realises just how far off he's wandered. “Dad?” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. The only response is the slight echo of his own voice, bouncing back against the heavy grouping of trees. “Dad?” he says again, slightly louder and with a warble he can't quite keep down. “Daddy!” he cries out, darting back and forth in the small clearing where he's come to stop. “Daddy, help! I'm lost! Where are you? Dad!”

He continues on that way, shouting desperately for help and keeping a hold on the football, until the hitching sobs that have been gaining momentum prove too strong for his small body, and he collapses into a pile of wildflowers, little chest heaving with his tears. He curls his body over, forehead pressing into the thick diamond quilting of the ball, and does his best to stifle his misery.

There's the sound of shuffling leaves, like feet upon the earth, and Eggsy's head goes shooting up with hope. “Daddy?” he calls out into the darkening blue of the forest.

A man appears from behind a tree a few feet away, dressed in a suit and holding an umbrella in his hand. “Oh, dear,” he murmurs kindly, and takes slow, careful steps towards Eggsy. “And where have you come from, young man?”

Eggsy wipes his nose across the sleeve of his jumper. “I was playin' with my dad,” he whispers, curving more tightly over the football. “He kicked the ball, and I were just trying to get it back for him.” His lips tremble as more tears threaten to spill over, and he redirects his gaze stubbornly towards the patches of white and black. “I got lost.”

The man hums, low and soothing, and comes to a crouch by Eggsy's side, umbrella placed gently on the ground. Eggsy watches in awe as wild flowers, the same as where he'd fallen down, curl up over the shine of the man's shoes. He forgets his unhappiness for a moment in favour of tilting himself over, peering behind the man so that he may see the trail of flowers his footsteps have left behind.

“Wow,” he breathes, blinking quickly as he looks the man in the face. “Are you magic?”

The man's mouth curves into a kind smile. “Something like magic,” he agrees, reaching out to brush a stray bit of leaf from Eggsy's shoulder. “And what might your name be, dear boy?”

“Eggsy,” he confides, mumbling.

“Well, Eggsy,” says the man, who holds out his hand like he wants Eggsy to shake it. “You may call me Harry.”

Eggsy can only manage to wrap his hand around three of the man's fingers, but they shake nonetheless. “Now then,” Mr. Harry says, lacing his fingers together and letting his hands hang down between his knees. “Hasn't anyone ever told you not to go into these woods alone, Eggsy?”

Eggsy's face burns hot, his ears flushed with shame. “Yes, Mr. Harry.” He lifts his chin defiantly. “But I was trying to get me dad's ball back! I didn't mean nothing wrong!”

“I know, dear boy,” Mr. Harry soothes, and grips at Eggsy's shoulder. “You've done nothing to deserve any sort of recrimination—punishment,” he amends, smiling when Eggsy's nose scrunches up with confusion, “for entering the forest.” He taps at Eggsy's forehead with two fingers, spreading that same feeling of warmth through his body as he'd felt when he'd first stumbled over the border. “You're quite full of light, young man. Such potential. I dare say you'll find the forest will never turn you away, should you keep on the path to good.”

Eggsy ducks shyly back into the comforting scent of the ball, all earth and false leather. “My mum says I’m a good boy,” he says proudly

“As well she should,” Mr. Harry agrees, and uses his umbrella to push himself back to standing. He holds out a hand to Eggsy, who takes it after a moment of thinking it over. Mr. Harry smiles down at him as Eggsy adjusts his grip on the football, and more flowers sprout up around them at the bare hint of teeth he shows.

Eggsy beams upwards at him, not noticing the way that the trees seem to part and a path clears the way ahead of them, too busy chattering excitedly to Mr. Harry about his upcoming gymnastic classes.

Mr. Harry listens closely, smiles warmly, and leads Eggsy out of the Kingsman forest with ease, large hand providing gentle guidance all the while. A dozen or so metres from the treeline, Eggsy begins to hear the panicked voice of his father, the hoarse cries of his own name. He trips over his own feet when he hears his dad calling out for him, strains against Mr. Harry’s grip but doesn’t let go when he sees the way Lee is racing around the border, looking terrified and pale, and all his mates spread out all along the football pitch, each shouting out for Eggsy to come back.

“That’s my dad!” he tells Harry, and tugs him along to the edge of the forest. “Dad!”

“Eggsy,” Lee cries out, nearly sobbing out the name and visibly wilting with relief when he drops to his knees in front of the pair. “Jesus, Eggsy, you bloody scared me!” he chastises, tugging his son into his arms and holding on tightly, afraid to let him wander off again. He sweeps the errant strands of hair back from Eggsy’s forehead and pushes urgent kisses against the skin there, warm despite the autumn chill. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he chants, burying his face into his son’s neck.

He glances upwards, mouth open at the ready to profess his gratitude to the stranger who’s brought his son out of the fabled woods, but the only noise to come out of his throat is a thin, rasping exhale when he sees the hand that still clutches at Eggsy’s.

“This is Mr. Harry, Dad!” Eggsy says, glancing between the two, happy to be reunited with his father and eager for he and his new friend to meet. “He said the forest wouldn’t never hurt me, Daddy, that I was safe there. It weren’t scary in there at all, ‘cept that I couldn’t see you no more.”

Lee swallows audibly, eyes leaving the ring on Mr. Harry’s pinky and drifting up to meet the other man’s gaze.

“Hello, Lee,” Mr. Harry greets kindly, smiling as nicely at Eggsy’s dad as he had at Eggsy himself. He lets go of Eggsy’s hand, taking some of the warmth with him, but leaving some to linger about Eggsy’s shoulders. “This is quite the exceptional young man you’ve got here.”

“Yeah,” Lee chokes, and tugs Eggsy more tightly against his body, cradling him close. “He’s my best boy.” He gives Eggsy a weak but honest grin, shakes him lightly until his son’s nose scrunches up and he giggles, tucking his face into the hot skin of Lee’s neck. “Ain’t ya?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy agrees quietly, peeking out from beneath his father’s jaw to look up towards his hero once more. “Mr. Harry says I’m a light, Daddy. That’s why the woods won’t never hurt me.”

They’ve gathered a bit of a crowd around them now, leary spectators who whisper amongst themselves and do their best not to point outright at the man and child who’ve just emerged from the thicket. They don’t quite manage to subdue or stifle their fervent whispers, or the way they elbow one another and quickly hiss out a single word:

_Kingsman._

Mr. Harry gives a quiet chuckle, tucking one hand into the pocket of his trousers and leaning onto his umbrella with the other. “Full of light, dear boy,” he corrects, taking a moment to direct his gaze into the crowd. Eyes avert from his own, out of fear or deference, and the corner of his lips quirk up. “And please, as much as I appreciate the formality, just ‘Harry’ is fine. As Eggsy has mentioned, the forest will always be a haven to those who have proven themselves worthy.” His eyes, sharp and warm all at once, flick back to the Unwins. “The Kingsman have no quarrels with you or your family, Lee. We recognize goodness when we see it, and no harm will come to you or Michelle should you find yourself across our borders.”

“I...I don’t understand,” Lee admits, voice odd and constricted, like his confusion is strangling him. Eggsy peers up between the two adults, face furrowed into a small frown.

Harry looks back at the gathering of gossips, growing larger with every passing moment, and lets out a low hum of contemplation before tapping the tip of his umbrella against the ground. Thick vines immediately begin to sprout from between the blades of grass, climbing higher and higher until they are shielded from prying eyes. Lee’s friends give outraged cries amongst the surprised gasps of the other strangers, but no one breaches the confines of the wall.

“My kind have watched over these lands for many years,” Harry says, hooking his umbrella over the crook of his elbow and adjusting his cufflinks. “We have dedicated ourselves to eradicating any threat made known to Queen and Country...within the confines of our power, that is.” His lips twist. “Some things...like great wars, and egomaniacal ambition disguised as foreign policy in distant lands, are well out of our range. This land behind me, all fifty-seven acres of it, is home to a sacred source from which we draw our power.”

He plants the tip of his umbrella in the ground and clasps his hands over the handle. “Unfortunately, history has proven that mankind’s appetite for possessing that kind of power is insatiable. We were forced, several centuries ago, to confine ourselves to a small plot, to consolidate our forces for protection. We are aware of the rumours that have spread throughout, about how no man should enter the forest. While it does make for a distinct lack of company, we saw no reason to dissuade such thinking.”

Harry pulls his glasses from his face and pinches at the bridge of his nose, eyes shutting briefly. When he opens them again, the warm brown irises have disappeared, covered by a swath of eerie white. The glow of them spreads and consumes, until the lines of his bespoke suit all seem to shine.

“We offer protection to those of this land, all inhabitants alike. Only those with malicious intent may find retribution should they try to cross into the forest. But I sense no such taint upon your soul, and definitely not that of your son.” The illumination fades, brown swirling back into the blankness of his eyes, until he looks to be an average man once more. The transformation seems to settle something within him, bringing his full attention back to the still crouching father and son, and he frowns.

Eggsy is tucked firmly against his father, now, shaking slightly and hiding his face from Harry’s view.

“I-I’m sorry,” Harry stutters strangely, and quickly replaces his glasses, coming to a kneel alongside the two. Lee withdraws slightly, twisting gently at the waist and holding Eggsy further away. “I truly...I didn’t mean to frighten you. I forget myself, sometimes...it’s so rare that I am able to interact with mortals.”

Eggsy snuffles quietly, and something in Harry’s face cracks apart. Lee can’t help but watch in fascination, even as he remains ready to bustle Eggsy away from any danger. Harry lifts a hand, as if to lay it gently upon Eggsy’s back, but Lee pulls him in even further, halting the hand in its path. Harry flexes his fingers, before withdrawing and digging into an interior pocket, pulling a velvet encased box from within the confines of his suit.

He opens the box and inside, nestled amongst the plush of white satin, is a medal made of gold. A rope-twined ‘K’ surrounded by a pale pink circle and attached to a ribbon, as if it were meant to be pinned to Lee’s formal Marine attire. He holds it out to them as an offering, careful not to lean too close.

Lee reaches out slowly and pulls the medal from its cushion, running his thumb over the Kingsman crest. “What’s this, then?” He turns it over in his fingers. The date is, inexplicably, already carved into the gold. He runs his thumb across the numbers, awe warring with the wariness he feels.

Eggsy’s attention has been caught once more, and though he still clings tightly to his dad’s jumper with one hand, he reaches out to take the medallion in his own smaller palm.

Harry gives a small upwards tick of his mouth. “A promise, of sorts,” he says. “A reminder that help and safety will always be found for you in the forest. If any of my…” he pauses, searching for the word to use. “...associates, ever make themselves known and takes it upon themselves to give you trouble, simply tell them, ‘Oxfords, not Brogues,’ and they will know you are under Kingsman protection. My protection, in particular.”

Lee looks at him closely, and after a moment, gives a single nod of assent. “You hear that, eh?” he asks, jostling Eggsy and tapping him on the forehead. “I know you’s got plenty of room in that big  brain of yours, little Egghead. You can remember them words, yeah?”

“Oxfords, not Brogues,” Eggsy repeats dutifully, clutching the medal to his chest.

“Smart lad,” his father praises, and kisses at Eggsy’s temple.

A rush of noise builds around them as the wall of thick, protective vines disappear and Lee’s friends crowd in around them in a barrage of demands as to whether or not the two of them are all right. Lee does his best to reassure them, even as they quickly usher the both of them away from the edges of the forest, but he notices the way Eggsy is staring backwards over his shoulder, hand lifted in a little goodbye wave.

But when Lee looks back, there’s no one there.

Just the wind in the trees.

 

ooo

 

Not long after Eggsy’s tenth birthday, he makes his way into forest for the second time.

When his dad makes the decision to move from the Royal Marine Reserve and into the regular service, he and his mum both break the news to Eggsy in an attempt to soften the blow. They’re all three of them out for a picnic on the public park grounds that sit just at the outskirts of the Kingsman woods, the weather mild and lovely. The surprising warmth of the spring day does nothing to stop the chill that settles over Eggsy when he realises what this means.

“You’re leaving?” he demands, dropping his chip buttie to the blanket, greasy chips and batter going everywhere. ‘You can’t!”

“Eggsy,” his dad tries, voice gentle but cracking.

“I don’t _want_ you to!” Eggsy seethes, standing up. His sandwich smashes into a flattened mess beneath his feet.

“Sweetheart,” his mum says, and reaches for him. He flinches out of her touch, hard, and in a rotten pique of anger and fear, picks up his cup of Ribena and throws it at them both.

While they’re busy sputtering and gasping behind him, he turns tail and runs straight into the forest.

Almost as if sensing his intense want for isolation, the trees rearrange themselves behind him, blocking any from following.

A path is cleared ahead as he runs, fast as his legs can carry him, carving an easy trail between the tall grass and the twisting tree roots. Small clusters of wildflowers sprout up every now and again, but as Eggsy passes them, they become nothing more than a tear-blurred splotch of color.

Still, they line the way, guiding him to a small patch of sunlit grass amongst the heavy grove. He collapses into the short blades and presses his face into his knees, and cries as hard as he can, loud and sobbing into the denim.

Nothing (and no one) disturbs him, allowing him his privacy in the midst of his panic. Anxiety makes him shudder and shiver while his blood runs cold. Above him, the branches shift and sway out of place, letting in a beam of sun that lands directly across Eggsy’s shoulders. It warms him; slowly, gently, as if not to startle him. It’s a silent comfort that the forest has allowed him.

He stays there for...he doesn’t know how long, but it’s at least until he’s calmed his cries down into the occasional sniffle and he manages to lurch onto his feet. He stumbles, slowly, back along the path, noticing for the first time the clutches of pale blue wildflowers.

Harry doesn’t appear, and though Eggsy hasn’t seen him in three years, he would recognise him immediately if he were to appear before him.

Harry doesn’t appear, but Eggsy knows he’s _there_ , from the way that, above him, the branches continue to shuffle out of place, keeping the stream of sunlight as a warm and bright shroud across his shoulders. All of it - the guiding sun, the inexplicable pathway, the small littering of flowers - leads him back to where his parents have kept a vigil on their tartan blanket.

(His mum’s eyes are still wet, her cheeks ruddy from crying, and his dad’s eyes are rimmed with red when they sweep him into their arms and all three of them clutch at one another fiercely.

A shadow watches from between the leaves, careful and considerate, and doesn’t flicker away until the Unwins, bundled together and toting their various picnic sundries, make their way back home.)

 

ooo

 

The forest becomes a sanctuary for Eggsy, after that. He feels no qualms, no hesitancy about going for walks among the trees and through the tall grass. He doesn’t bother with breadcrumbs, or markers in the bark, or a string to guide him back from whence he came. He trusts the forest in a way he can’t explain, just knows that it’s deep and unwavering, and that the way the branches brush against him when he enters feels more like a familial embrace than an obstacle.

What begins as a place of comfort during any time of duress becomes something more of a second home. Eggsy finds himself there at least once every week, going for long walks and, in the warmer months, sunbathing in small meadows. He talks to the trees as if they’re listening, because they _are_ , and learns the shift and sway of them as physical indications of a response.

“Been thinkin’ about quitting gymnastics,” he mutters one day when he’s fifteen, shredding a blade of grass between his fingers. A branch of the tree he’s reclining against bows with disapproval, small leaves and twigs flicking against his head and knocking his cap off. “Oi, Harry,” he laughs, catching it as it tumbles into his lap. “Calm down, man, ain’t nothing serious yet. Just…” he heaves a sigh, scrapes a thumbnail over the canvas of the hat’s bill. “Some arseholes at school, givin’ me shit. Doubt Mum and Dad would let me, anyways. Seem to think it keeps me from gettin’ into trouble, or summat.” He squints upwards, into the shadowed outline of the branches, backlit by the setting sun.

“I don’t _want_ to,” he murmurs, dropping the last shreddings of grass and picking up a small blue flower. He spins the stem between his fingers, watching the way the petals blur into a circle. “Am good at it, ain’t I?” The grass around him ruffles in agreement. The flowers grow larger, their petals blooming widely in encouragement. “Just frustrated, I s’pose. Kids at school already think I’m a freak, skippin’ years as I’ve done.” He smiles ruefully at his knees as he shoves his hat back onto his head and settles into a comfortable slouch against the tree. The bark scrapes and snags at his hoodie and prickles against his spine through all of his clothing. “Don’t really matter what they think, does it? I’ll be off to Uni soon enough. Maybe even the World Tourney, if Coach gets his way. Can you imagine that, Haz?” he laughs, and combs his fingers through the grass that’s gaining height next to his hip, climbing towards his elbow and curling into his body.

He thinks about the rush he feels whenever he throws a trick on the tramp, about the way it feels to do a flawless routine on the rings or the pommel horse. He _loves_ gymnastics, loves it in a way that surprises him still, despite the grueling training and the fierce competition amongst his age group. The expectation of failure from the parents of his more...well-off competitors, like where he lives should determine how good he is - and he’s _really fucking good_ \- drives him forward.

He’s never backed down from a challenge easily, and he’d retreated to the forest almost the moment the thought of quitting had flickered through his mind.

Eggsy sighs and uncrosses his legs, stretching them out ahead of himself. The grass and flowers all lean out of his way as he extends his limbs. “Couldn’t give it up, really. Don’t know who I’m trying to pull one over on.”

The tree groans as it leans into him, just slightly, commiserating.

Two months later, Eggsy’s being driven home by one of his teammate’s mums when a drunk driver slams into them at a roundabout, passenger side. He’d been sitting up front, for reasons he can’t remember, so he gets the brunt of the impact.

He’s an unconscious mass of broken bones, more bruise than boy, when he’s carted off to the hospital, where he remains utterly unaware of the world around him for three weeks. Emergency surgeries become almost routine to repair the internal damage done in the crash, and Eggsy flatlines twice.

It’s nearly a month after the accident before his eyes slide open, and another two weeks after that before he’s confined to bedrest in the small apartment where his family lives. By the time those two weeks are up, he's nearly gagging to go home, as a large cluster of birds seem to have taken up residence outside his window and never shut the fuck up.

His father’s on leave from the Marines, and seems almost suffocatingly dedicated to ensuring that Eggsy has everything he could possibly want.

Mostly, what Eggsy wants is a hot bath and enough painkillers to send him into a stupor, but the extra time spent with Lee does help soothe an ache he knows isn’t from the accident.

The birds, if he's not mistaken, follow him home, and chirp endlessly. Eggsy, a bleeding heart for animals if there ever was one, finds himself praying they stand on a frayed power line wire and cook themselves.

It’s another month before he’s allowed to haul his sore, aching body into a wheelchair Ryan and Jamal have fucking _bedazzled_ , the bastards, and is carefully transported by his dad to the edges of the forest.

He frowns up at the trees, which have grown tall and foreboding in the last two and a half months. The leaves look darker, and almost...worried. The branches are trembling as he approaches, wheeling forward slowly across the damp soil. He’s barely a metre from the edge when two tangles of vine reach out and hook into the arms of his chair, pulling him in quickly.

“Alright,” he whispers, and runs his hand up the bark of the tree. It smooths out as he touches it, like the forest is doing its best to be gentle with him and spare him any other pain. A streak of polished oak, nestled in amongst the rough. He leans into it, presses his cheek against the same spot, and does his best to embrace the trunk. “Guess you was worried, eh?”

The trees around him groan.

“Am alright now,” he whispers. Tears bite at his eyes and slip out from the corners, dribbling down his nose and into the wood. The leaves make an unhappy sound, branches drooping around his shoulders like a shroud, like they’re trying to provide comfort. “It’s okay, Harry. I ain’t worth gettin’ upset over.”

He means it as a lighthearted little jab, but something gets lost in translation between his brain and his mouth - must be due to the immense amount of painkillers in his system - but it does absolutely nothing to the Kingsman spirit that’s kept him company for over half his life.

The forest makes a mournful noise, all at once, and the sound is as deafening as it is miserable.

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ ,” comes a voice out of the darkness, startling and sudden and...Scottish. “I’m staring right at him, Harry, the lad is fine.”

Eggsy starts, releasing his hold on the tree, and shrinks himself back into the chair as best he can manage. His hands go to the wheels, ready for an escape if one seems necessary, and wishes keenly that he’d brought Harry’s medal with him. Maybe he should just start wearing it on a chain, he thinks hysterically, as a tall figure slinks out of the shadows.

Whoever he is, he’s wearing a dowdy jumper, tailored trousers, and a pair of thickly framed glasses. There’s a face scowling at him out of a head that’s bald, and a clipboard clasped against his chest, arms crossed over it with clearly conveyed irritation.

“Eggsy,” the man greets with a firm nod of the head, approaching slowly. His face is softening in increments, like he’s taken note of the teenager’s distress and is trying to put him at ease. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” The leaves ruffle indignantly, and the man waves them off. He pauses, a metre or so away, and gives Eggsy an appraising once over. “You look like shite.”

“Oi,” he protests feebly. “Fuck off.”

“Well, Harry certainly wasn’t exaggerating about your manners,” the man says drily, and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger. “I am sorry we have to meet this way, Eggsy, but Harry’s been rather beside himself since you...disappeared. He’d be here himself but he hasn’t quite managed to regain the wherewithal to manifest himself physically.”

“What,” Eggsy manages, still leaning back in his chair, as far as he can. His fingers tighten around the wheels, but the tree beside him gives a thin, reedy little creak and twines more vines around the handles, keeping him in place. He glances over the side and there are roots bursting forth from the dirt, winding between the spokes of the wheels before diving into the earth again.

It strangely makes him feel at ease, because he knows - don’t bloody ask how, he just _knows_ \- that Harry wouldn’t keep him trapped here if this man was going to hurt him.

“Your accident had quite the effect on him,” the man says, then tilts his head to the side, eyes darting upwards as the tops of the trees bow down threateningly. “Come off it.”

“Who’re you?” Eggsy asks, releasing his tight grip on the wheels and hefting himself slowly upright. His still aching ribs protest the movement, so he drops down with a pained little grunt.

“They call me Merlin,” the stranger says.

"Jesus," Eggsy says, and makes a face. " _Why?_ "

The man - _Merlin,_ apparently - gives him an indignant look. "Because it's my bloody name, you little bugger. Listen, right, I'm doing Harry a favour by even showing my face to you, not to mention the energy expenditure it took to send the local aviaries to your location in order to get updates on your well being these past few weeks."

"You're the one that put those fuckin' birds outside me room?" Eggsy demands, lurching up with all the force of his offense. "And...what the fuck, bruv, you spyin' on me?"

Merlin ignores him. Prick.

"As it were," he continues, turning on one heel and stalking briefly back into the recesses of the forest. He bends at the waist behind a tall hedge, and when he straightens back up, one arm is curled into his body like he's holding onto something weighty and unruly. "The birds themselves are none too pleased with being cast about like a personal toy. They've rarely been used for more that state and country intelligence, and found Harry's insistence...demeaning, to say the least."

A very aggravated sounding squawk echoes out from somewhere above their heads, as if in agreement. Merlin's eyes tilt up in brief acknowledgment, before all of that unsettling focus is right back on Eggsy. He comes around the side of the bush, arm jostling from whatever's fighting against his clutches, and when he comes a bit closer Eggsy can see that it's -

He sits upright, all at once. "Izzat a bulldog?" he demands, tracking the little beast with eager eyes.

Merlin gives a sigh that sounds like the world has personally disappointed him. "It's a pug, Eggsy. Bred and born within the sanctity of the Kingsman woods, and now," he pauses, and carefully dumps the wriggling little pup into Eggsy's lap, "he's yours."

The puppy presses gentle paws against Eggsy's sternum, small bum twitching back and forth furiously in little movements, and gives a series of heart wrenching little whimpers until Eggsy gathers him close enough that he can lick furiously at the still healing scrapes on Eggsy's chin. Something buoys up inside of him at the little dog's kisses, soothes away the aches that abound throughout his body, and he can't help but grin. "Thanks," he says, and pulls the pup high into his chest. "Don't get why, bruv, but...thanks."

The trees give a pleased little shudder.

Something in Merlin's face is a bit less severe than before, making him look almost friendly. "The forest is fond of you," he says eventually, after a few moments of watching Eggsy and the pup get to know one another. "It's been a fair amount of time since someone was stupid enough-"

"Hey!"

"-to wander into our midst, much less on a regular basis." He takes a few steps forward, until he can brush the backs of his fingers down the puppy's spine. "I, myself, usually serve in the center of the forest, but word of you has spread through the roots and soil. It's not just Harry that cares for you, lad. You've grown here, Eggsy, and things that grow in the Kingsman forest will always be held dear by the spirits that call it home." He takes a step back and effects a disinterested expression, nose wrinkling up into a sniff. "I, personally, think you're a cheeky little bastard, and couldn't give a damn."

Eggsy smirks. "Right," he drawls. "That's the reason for the puppy, then?" The dog in question shifts on his lap, paws pressing into his ribs. Eggsy winces at the pressure, light as it may be, and it reminds him that he's long past due for a painkiller. Almost as if reading his thoughts, there's the sound of gently treading footsteps behind him. A familiar hand curls over Eggsy's shoulders as his father comes to stand by his side. He's frowning slightly when Eggsy glances up at him, Lee's eyes flickering between the entrapped wheels and Merlin.

He crouches down, body curling into Eggsy's protectively. The puppy gives a little gurgle and launches himself at Lee, licking furtively over his stubble. "Who's this, then?" he laughs, and runs a hand over its little haunches.

"Ask Merlin," Eggsy mumbles, leaning into his father's shoulder and closing his eyes. Tiredness is setting in quickly, now that he isn't quite so on guard. He trusts his father to protect him, but more importantly, he realises that he trusts Merlin not to hurt him.

His eyes throb behind their lids, a headache settling in. He smiles, just a bit, when he feels a vine brushing worriedly against his cheek.

"Eggsy," comes Merlin's voice, sounding closer than before. Eggsy slits his eyes open, only to find Merlin bent into a crouch before him, brow furrowed together. "I understand you're tired, lad, and I won't keep you from resting any longer. I know all the others, Harry especially, appreciate that you've taken the time to come here; to show us that you are in, fact, still alive. But, just to make things easier, we've taken it upon ourselves to assign you a guardian. Someone who will alert the Kingsman, should anything happen to you again. Won't you?"

It takes a moment for Eggsy to realise that Merlin isn't talking to him, or even Lee, but the puppy gives a little woof in response to the query, ears perked up and eyes bright like he can understand every single word. He's even stopped wiggling, and is instead sitting still and quiet, as if he's standing at attention.

"Your mum is gonna kill us," Lee says mildly, but lifts the puppy out of Eggsy's lap and tucks him carefully into the crook of his arm. "Now, let's soften her up with some of her favourite take away, yeah? 'S nearly tea time."

The vines release their grip on Eggsy's chair, releasing him into his father's care. Eggsy gives the tree trunk a tired pat against the bark, consoling  it.

The last thing he really remembers before exhaustion finally swarms him is the murmur of two voices, his dad and Merlin, and the mention of his name.

(Michelle is, to put it lightly, irate when she first lays eyes on the newest member of the Unwin clan. But Lee is quick to explain its presence to her, and when they duck into Eggsy's room to check in on him, her eyes go soft at the sight of the two new friends, sleeping curved into one another.

"Alright," she whispers, and leans back into Lee. "It can stay." She glances over her shoulder at her husband. "But if it shits on the carpet, you're cleaning it up."

Lee just chuckles and presses a kiss to her temple.

In the next room, JB snores, and Eggsy's good arm tightens around him.)

 

ooo

 

After his visit to the forest, all of his doctors are taken aback by the speed with which his healing has accelerated.

He has a few ideas as to why that is, but keeps it to himself, tucking the thoughts in between some trees and the memory of vines curled gently around his legs.

 

ooo

 

JB becomes Eggsy's constant companion, after that. Long past the time that all of his aches have left and all of his bones have healed, JB is there alongside him at all times. Shop owners complain about the dog's presence, and his school attempted to have Eggsy sent home, but all protests are quickly hushed by the sight of the Kingsman sigil on the dog's left hind leg, left there by a distinct pattern of dark fur.

A warning, and a claim, is what people saw when they looked at JB. An animal of the Kingsmen, so clearly devoted to this young man, neither to be messed with.

It was a bit lonely, honest, when the population knew to give you and yours a wide berth because an ancient power was inexplicably protective of you. Jamal and Ryan were the only ones not bothered, but Eggsy suspected that was because the lot of them had grown up together, and none were willing to part for any reason.

The entire city of London knew of the power of the Kingsmen, and no one was willing to incur their wrath.

Well. Almost no one.

A problem has arisen in the form of Dean Baker, local small time gangster and apparent inhabitant of the Black Prince pub, where Eggsy works part time as a bartender.

He finds Dean obnoxious from the start, and bristles at the way he treats the female servers at the Prince, helping himself to a handful of their arse whenever he pleased. He’s lewd and loud, and he and his entourage were often armed with small pistols and knives, which guaranteed Eggsy's silence.

Ryan and Jamal had urged him, more than just the once, to lure Dean and his goons out to the edge of the forest and show him who had the _real_ power between them. The threatened to go to the Kingsmen themselves, or to send JB out as a messenger, but Eggsy refused, determined to handle the situation on his own.

He still made his weekly trips into the forest, but no had greeted him there for nine years - not since Merlin had presented him with JB, in fact. Flowers still bloom beneath his feet, vines still grab his hand in greeting, and the trees all still speak to him through groaning trunks and branches, but no one appears before him to say hello.

And, despite himself, Eggsy feels like a burden. He’s spent most of his life finding solace in the Kingsman woods, taking comfort in the energy and magic that surrounds him whenever he crosses over the border, and after seventeen years and only two interactions with Harry and Merlin, respectively, he can’t help but wonder what they’re possibly gaining from his visits.

So, he stops going. Slowly, carefully, making sure to space out his visits one day at a time so that the separation isn’t sudden. He’s seen the way the forest reacted when he was fifteen and in that accident, when it was abruptly cut off from him. He thinks, in retrospect, that it was probably just that he disappeared without a warning that made the forest grow taller, darker, and more foreboding.

So, yeah. Slow and steady seems to be the solution.

The night his mum walks into the bar after her shift at the hospital, glowing and lovely, marks five weeks since he’s been to the forest at all. It’s taken some considerable amount of time to get to this point, and no small amount of crying on JB’s part. The birds have started gathering outside of his window again.

But the grumpiness that lack of sleep due to their incessant chirping has caused him disappears when his mum comes up to the bar, looking like she’s barely suppressing a grin. It’s only been a few days since his dad was sent out on another deployment, and it usually takes her up to two weeks to start smiling freely again. He gives her a wary look out of the corner of his eye when he reaches for another glass, polishing cloth wrapped around his other hand. “Alright, mum” he says, and nods towards her in reference to her poorly concealed excitement. “What’s this, then?”

She clasps her hands together and takes a seat, gives him a cheeky little smile. “Can’t come see my favorite kid without you bein’ suspect?”

Eggsy snorts and sets aside the now spotless glass. “‘m your only kid, mum,” he reminds her, and picks up a pint glass.

His mum...says nothing. Something tickles at the back of Eggsy’s neck at her silence, and he turns back slowly.

His mum is biting down on her lip, clearly trying to hold back a grin, but her eyes are brimming and bright.

“No way,” he says, and sets the pint glass down on the bartop with a heavy ‘thunk.’

His mum claps her hands over his mouth and gives a few quick nods, then drops her clasped palms against her chest. “Dr. Sanders took a blood test for me, since I’ve been feeling ill the past few weeks, and when the results came in…” She takes a deep, wavering breath. “You’re gonna be a brother, babe.”

“Shut up!” Eggsy says, feeling his own mouth start to pull into a cheek splitting grin. He plants his hands on the bartop and vaults over, careful to give his mum a wide berth until he can haul her into a tight hug. “Mum, that’s…” he pulls back and makes a face, “a little disgustin’, to be honest, I weren’t ever wanting to know you and Dad still…” he shudders dramatically and his mum swats at him, playful. “But. Really?”

“Absolutely,” she confirms, and laughs when he draws her in again.

“This is amazing,” Eggsy whispers, and kisses her on the crown of her head before pulling back, hands on her shoulders so he can grin at her properly. “Does Dad know? Or is you waitin’ until he comes home and you can hand him a newborn? Christ, mum, do that, please, I’d love to see his face.”

Michelle swats at him half heartedly, still smiling up at him even when he yelps, “Not the face, mum! Got to make me money somehow!”

There’s an agitated sounding snort from behind them, and then the sound of beer sloshing around inside a pint glass that’s set down with a heavy ‘clank’.

“Don’t think no one would pay to see your ugly mug,” comes the slightly slurred voice of Dean, tucked away inside a booth with his various cohorts. “Fuck knows I’d pay to never see it again.” His lip curls when his goons snicker. “Prick,” he sneers in Eggsy’s direction.

Michelle glares at him, good mood evaporating quickly. “Don’t you speak to my boy like that,” she scolds.

Dean levels the two of them with a disbelieving look. “This your mum, Muggsy?” he asks, gesturing to Michelle before giving her a lewd up and down once-over. He lets out a low whistle and then lurches unsteadily to his feet, already well into his cups despite it being early afternoon on a Thursday. “Shame you didn’t get any of her looks.”

“Fuck off,” Eggsy bites out, and gently guides his mother behind him when Dean steps closer, one hand extended towards her face. “I’ll have you tossed, bruv, so don’t even try.”

Dean gives a wet, rasping laugh and ducks in close to Eggsy’s face. His breath is putrid, all alcohol and halitosis, and it makes Eggsy crane his face away despite himself. He clenches his jaw tightly shut and stands his ground, because he’ll be damned if Dean so much as lays a hand on his mum.

Dean’s two main stooges, whom Eggsy only knows as Poodle and Rottweiler, shuffle their way out of the booth and flank Dean on either side. They stand with their hands on their belts, jacket’s pushed open in a way that makes it apparent that they’re armed.

Eggsy swallows, but doesn’t move.

“Babe, just leave it,” his mum urges from behind him, hands curling around his elbows.

“Yeah, _babe_ ,” Dean croons, and reaches around Eggsy to rub a thumb over Michelle’s cheekbone. She flinches back at the same time Eggsy’s arm flies up, blocking Dean, and the other one shoots out with the palm laid flat, shoving hard into the older man’s chest.

Any sort of false joviality is quick to leave Dean’s face at the physical contact. His brow contorts into a scowl and he steps, impossibly, closer. “You wanna fuckin’ apologise for that one, boy?” he snarls, breathing wet and fetid air into Eggsy’s face.

“Not particularly,” Eggsy snaps back, and gives him another hard shove. This time, Dean stumbles back a few steps. His expression transforms quickly from agitated, to thunderous, to downright murderous.

Eggsy barely has time to see the fist flying towards him before it’s connecting with his face in a sickening crack of flesh-on-flesh and bone breaking against bone. Through the ringing in his ears, he can hear the frantic snarling howl that JB lets loose, hears his mum screaming as he ducks low to recover from the hit.

Dean’s laughing above him, saying something about how he can find a way to shut her up, too, and rage like Eggsy hasn’t ever felt before fills his body so quickly that it nearly winds him.

He takes advantage of his current low position and charges forward, tackling Dean into one of the tables. The combined force and weight breaks the table legs like they're made of matchsticks and the thing collapses, sending them both crashing to the floor in a spray of glass and splinters.

Eggsy feels some of the jagged pieces slice into his palms, cut into his forearms, and it quickly makes his grip slippery with blood.

A pair of hands fist into the back of his polo and pull, hard enough that he can hear the fabric tearing. Rottweiler holds him still, choking him with the taut collar, while Poodle winds his arm back and throws it forward, punching Eggsy right in the gut. His knees crumble as the air is knocked out of him, but it only serves to leave him choking harder against the confines of his shirt. Poodle helps a panting, blotchy faced Dean to his feet and starts trying to brush pieces of glass and shards of wood off of his shoulders. He’s shoved aside for his efforts.

Dean looms above Eggsy, who’s still struggling for breath, and with a loud, angry grunt, backhands him straight across the same space he’d punched Eggsy in the face before.

Eggsy blacks out briefly from the agony lancing through his entire body, radiating down from his abused cheek. Dimly, he can hear JB’s frantic, guttural snarls, barely sees out of the corner of his eye the way his dog goes sprinting through the small doggy door the manager had installed in the front door of the pub, and hears his mum screaming at them to “stop, _please_ , don’t touch him!”

“Shut up,” Dean barks at her, wiping blood from his forehead with his sleeve. “I’ll deal with you in a minute, you bitch.”

Eggsy lets loose what he can only describe as a growl, and wrenches himself free of Rottweiler’s grasp. The skin around his throat feels raw and chafed, the chain from which his Kingsman medal hangs haven bitten deep into the skin. His throat feels raw, inside and out.

He does his best to get out of the way of the next punch that Dean throws, and manages to do so for the most part - the bastard’s knuckles manage to dig into a sensitive spot by his collarbone, the result of the crash from nine years before. He staggers back, hand curled protectively against the aching space, and what he does next, he really has no fucking explanation for.

He slides his hand down and clenches the Kingsman medal in his bloody hand, staining the gold and pressing granules of glass even further into his palm.

 _‘Harry,’_ he thinks - _prays_ \- desperately, watching as Dean reaches into his back  pocket and pulls out a knife. _‘Harry, I’m fucked. Please, you said you would always be there to help me, and if you don’t help now, he’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.’_

The wind outside begins to pick up, windows rattling in their frames.

 _‘I’m sorry,’_ Eggsy thinks, blinking through the blood that’s dripping into his eyes - he didn’t even realize his head had been cut open. _‘Harry, I’m so fucking sorry I ain’t been around lately, I just thought you’s wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t give a fuck because no one but my mum and dad does. Please, please, I know you’re probably steamed, but I really need your help, bruv.’_

The wind starts to howl, whistling through the cracks of the doors and making them flutter open and bang shut.

Dean takes a step forward, knife gleaming despite the dim lighting of the pub, and as he approaches, Eggsy can only think, _‘Oh, fuck, I’m going to die in this fucking pub. Jesus fuck, fuck, fuck -”_ before he releases his grip on his necklace, the bloody medal falling into his polo and staining the collar, and drops into the best defensive stance that he can manage.

The blood dripping into his eyes is stinging and blinding, and Dean laughs when he tries to get it out. He flips the knife over in his hand, displaying the blade towards Eggsy with a clear threat. His mum is sobbing in the background, hunkered protectively behind the bar, and Paul - the manager - is holding her behind him and shouting at Dean and his lot about calling the police.

Eggsy never wanted to die this young, but he gladly would if it meant keeping his mum safe.

The wind is gale-force now, slamming the doors open and shut on their hinges. The lights flicker above their heads, drawing all of the attention in the room upwards. Eggsy recovers quickly, and take the opportunity to charge at Dean, thrusting an arm out to block his knife-wielding arm, and punches him as hard in the face as he can manage.

He feels something in his hand break, but he can _hear_ the way that Dean’s cheekbone fractures under the blow, sending him reeling backwards and the knife clattering to the floor.

“You fuckin’, _fuckin’-_ ” Rottweiler seethes nonsensically, and pulls a tiny pistol out of the front of his jeans.

Eggsy only has a second to despair of both his situation and the stupidity of putting a live weapon near your cock, and then the doors slam open.

JB trots inside, still growling lowly, but his small tail is wagging like he’s immensely pleased with himself

The sky outside is dark with thunderclouds, but the wind has suddenly stopped. Every person in the room looks toward the open doorway with varying degrees of trepidation, and a cleanly cut figure steps into the frame.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt,” Harry says, both hands curled around his umbrella. He’s dressed differently than the first - and last - time that Eggsy saw him; clad in a blue velvet suit jacket and a pair of black watch tartan trousers that no man should be capable of wearing so well.

He strides into the pub, taking long and careful steps, moving gracefully around the broken table and giving a withering look to any of Dean’s mutts that stand in his way. He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of Eggsy, close enough that Eggsy has to tilt his chin upwards to get a proper look at him.

Harry’s aged, but barely - still looking to be a fit bloke in his late forties or early fifties - hair still swept back neatly and brown eyes still looking kindly down at Eggsy from behind those thick-framed specs.

His thin lips flick up at the corners in the barest hint of a smile. “Hello, Eggsy,” he greets quietly. “It’s been a long time.”

Eggsy swallows around the dry lump in his throat, and tastes blood. “Yeah,” he agrees hoarsely, and wipes at his blood face with the back of his wrist. “You look, uh. Good,” he finishes lamely.

The small smile on Harry’s face inverts and becomes a frown when he tracks his eyes over the quickly bruising and swelling skin around Eggsy’s cheekbone and eye. “Were I only able to say the same to you,” he mutters, and pulls a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. He presses it to a spot in Eggsy’s left eyebrow, making him wince back slightly. “As it were, my dear boy, you look rather like shit.”

Eggsy gives a garbled laugh and reaches up to press the handkerchief against his face for himself. Their fingers brush together. “Shut it.”

“Well,” Dean drawls from behind Harry, hovering around behind them like a bloodstained gargoyle. “Ain’t this touching.” Harry makes a quarter turn to get a better look at Dean, face still cast in that mild-but-disapproving look Eggsy’s been trying so desperately to remember for nearly two decades. Dean spits out a hefty amount of blood and saliva, and what Eggsy thinks is possibly a tooth or two. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, glances at the smear on his skin, and snarls. “Right, why don’t you fuck off, you old geezer,” Dean says, and makes a ‘shoo’ motion towards Harry. “I’ve got some business to finish with this maggot, and I ain’t gonna ask you twice.”

“You should go,” Eggsy whispers, but his hand reaches out despite himself to fist at the back of Harry’s lush jacket, contradicting his words. “I didn’t mean to bother you none, Harry. Don’t want you in the middle of this because of me.”

Harry lets out a gentle sigh and reaches up to fiddle with the blood-smeared encircled K that’s hanging on Eggsy’s chest. “If you think I’d let anything happen to you,” he says seriously, dropping the medal and curling his hand over Eggsy’s shoulder. “Then I have a substantial amount of work to do in correcting your opinion of me.”

“Get out of the way, grandpa,” Poodle barks, effectively breaking the moment.

Harry’s sigh this time is much more irritated, blown out quickly through his nose, but he doesn’t bother turning around to face the quickly regrouping thugs that loom behind him. Instead, he glances over towards Michelle and Paul, who are still hidden behind the relative safety of the bar top. “Terribly sorry you have to witness this,” he apologises, sounding sincere for it as well, before he’s reaching out with his umbrella in one swift movement, hooks the end around a pint glass, and sends it flying backwards with one smooth flick of the rest.

It crashes into Dean’s forehead in the most beautiful crash of glass and stale beer that Eggsy has ever seen, sending him to the floor one last time.

Dean goes down, and stays down. It’s amazing, if only for the sheer panic that comes over his friends’ faces when they realise that he isn’t getting back up. Rottweiler’s grip tightens visibly around his handgun.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Harry advises him, tone still calm and collected. He’s standing directly in front of Eggsy like a human shield. Or, considering the circumstances, an inhuman forest spirit shield, but either way Eggsy’s relief is overwhelming. “Eggsy,” Harry says over his shoulder, never once moving his eyes from Rottweiler and Poodle and the other increasingly stressed looking gang members. “Get behind the bar with your mother. I’d much prefer it if you were out of the line of fire, as it were.”

Eggsy doesn’t need to be told twice, and - trusting Harry not to let anything happen to him - hauls his aching body over to the end of the bench, ducking quickly around it and pulling his mum into his arms. She makes an unhappy noise and flutters fingers around the mess that’s been made of his face, but he’s so grateful to have her be unhurt that he doesn’t even care.

“Just wait until Dean wakes up,” Poodle rages, and Rottie turns the safety off on his gun as a threat, but makes no move towards the trigger. “I don’t know who you think you are, you old fuck, but -”

“Who I am?” Harry interrupts, and it’s then that Eggsy notices the thick vines that are creeping into the pub, inching towards the gang. “Come now, I find it difficult to believe that even someone such as yourself has never heard of the Kingsmen.”

Several faces pale considerably, all at once, as realisation dawns on them.

“I don’t believe you,” Poodle says, striving for confidence and failing miserably, if the trembling in his hands is any indication. “Kingsmen are just a fucking myth.”

“Are we?” Harry asks, and flicks a hand up. Quickly, the three goons whose names Eggsy doesn’t know are wrapped from head to toe in the thick, constricting vines. One snakes around Rottweiler’s hand and tightens, hard enough that he releases the gun when his bones begin to grind together and he lets out a hoarse cry of pain.

“I’ve resided over this land for longer than your ancestors deemed it necessary to crawl their way out of the mud,” Harry informs them, taking deliberate steps forward. “I’ve offered protection to the people of this country, kept its Kings and Queens and citizens safe, and I haven’t done so in the hopes that petty criminals like yourself could terrorize the good people of London.”

Two vines make their way around the men's’ throats, curled loosely like a threat.

Eggsy can’t let this happen.

“Harry,” he calls out, voice cracking. “Harry, don’t. Please, just...let them go. Ain’t no one here that deserves to die, bruv.”

Harry visibly pauses all movement, save for looking at Eggsy over his shoulder for a long moment.

Their eyes catch and hold, and a million silent conversations happen all at once between them before Harry’s shoulders drop and he gives an unhappy grumble. “Very well,” he says, and waves a hand. The men all drop to the ground, hands tucked protectively into their bodies. In the next moment, though, he must draw his power into himself or something, because he very suddenly seems larger than life, impossibly big and powerful in the confines of the pub, bristling with the raw magic of the forest.

“This young man, his friends and family and even this pub, are all under my protection,” he rumbles, voice echoing and rolling against the walls. “May you never dare to cross him again, or our next meeting will not end so pleasantly.”

They stand there in stunned silence. Harry rolls his eyes. “Leave!” he commands, and watches them scramble to haul Dean up between them and drag his still unconscious body through the doors.

It’s only once they’ve fully left his line of sight does Harry deflate and the doors sway gently shut. He turns around and faces Eggsy, Michelle, and Paul, shoulders slumped and face full of genial contrition. “Sorry about that,” he apologises, moving towards them so that he can sit at the bar. “I’ve had a very trying day.”

“My pub,” Paul manages, gaze flickering over Harry’s shoulder to survey the carnage left behind by the fight. Eggsy winces guiltily.

Harry glances behind himself. “Ah,” he says, and waves a hand, an easy gesture. Between one blink and the next, the wreckage in the room is gone, glasses mended and whole as if they were never broken, and the table built back together and standing on all four legs once more.

“You’re really,” Paul says, and then swallows, like he needs a moment to regain his composure. “I thought Eggsy was tryin’ to pull one over on me all these years...just thought he wanted his dog with him.”

“Oh, I can assure you that Eggsy is held very dear by every guardian in the forest,” Harry says, swiveling back around on the stool and hooking his umbrella over the edge of the bench top. “Despite our own failings in assuring him of such, his well being is taken quite seriously amongst those whom have been lucky enough to see him grow.”

And, oddly enough, it’s only just then that Eggsy realises who’s sitting in front of him.

“Harry,” he chokes, and stumbles on his own feet in his rush to get back around the bar. “Jesus fuck, man, you’re really here!”

Harry stands to meet him, and when Eggsy slams into him bodily, arms winding about his lithe waist, he smells of cedar and crisp air. Those long, graceful arms fold their way around his body in return and clasp him close, hugging him for the first time ever. Eggsy’s been thinking of this moment since he was seven years old, of seeing Harry again, but no day dream could have prepared him for the happiness that he feels coursing through his body.

Even his face doesn’t hurt quite so badly anymore.

The two of them pull apart, far enough that Harry can cradle the aforementioned abuse part of his face in one large palm and frown unhappily down at Eggsy. “Would you mind terribly if I…” he begins, but trails off.

“Yeah, anything,” Eggsy agrees, readily enough. He isn’t quite expecting Harry to press a thumb into the dead centre of his cheek, where both of Dean’s blows had landed, nor for the searing agony the touch inspires to fade quickly into a dull warmth. He can nearly feel the bones mending under his skin, knitting together carefully and reforming the broken wall of his eye socket.

“Much better,” Harry murmurs fondly, giving Eggsy the smallest of smiles, and strokes a thumb over the apple of his cheek once more before dropping his hand. “Now, would it be terribly troublesome to get an order of fish and chips, and perhaps even a pint of Guinness? It’s been a long time since I indulged, you see, and I’m feeling a bit famished.”

Paul nods wordlessly, mouth still slightly agape as he stares out at the repaired pub - which actually looks almost better than it did before, like it’s been polished and cleaned up as well - and disappears back into the kitchen.

Eggsy can’t contain the giddy smile stretching across his face and he looks between his mum and Harry before settling into a stool next to the latter. “It’s so fuckin’ good to see you,” he says, jostling Harry’s shoulder with his own. “And, hey, yeah, guess what my mum just told me?” He grins at her and gestures for her to tell the news to Harry herself, lest he steal her thunder.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mum give an odd glance between himself and Harry, almost like she’s considering something. She almost visibly shakes herself out of it before smiling carefully, but the gentle squint of her eyes lingers in the back of Eggsy’s mind for a while.

Even amongst the whole-hearted congratulations Harry offers, and the way the conversation quickly devolves into a discussion over a Kingsman crafted crib for the newest Unwin, Eggsy wonders what it is she’s seen between them.

If his heart beats a bit faster thinking about it, the sharp scent of Harry’s magic winding its way around him, well. That’s just for him to know, innit?

 

ooo

 

After that day, Harry ceases to be a memory or possible shared delusion, and something more akin to a fixture amongst the Unwin household. Which isn’t to say that they don’t go several days without seeing him - they do - but rarely more than a week goes by before he’s knocking the door to Eggsy’s tiny flat, or the front door of his parents’ home. He always knows where to find Eggsy, even returning to the pub every now and then for a pint and a bit of conversation.

There are a few evenings when the pub is bustling, when crowds are drawn in to watch footie games on the large flat screen television and Eggsy barely has a moment to go and piss, much less chat with Harry no matter how much he wants to, but Harry sequesters himself in a corner booth with a view of the bar and stays the night, despite the utter lack of company he receives.

It’s funny, the way people simultaneously give him a wide berth but begin to flock to the Prince in the hopes of seeing him. They’ve become a bit notorious; Paul’s even joked a few times about changing the name to the Kingsman’s Pub, to advertise the fact that they frequently feed up one of the most powerful forces in the world. Harry’s only reaction had been to smirk into his pint glass and quietly suggest that ‘Harry’s Pub’ had a much nicer ring to it, and the added benefit of pissing Merlin off something fierce.

Still, Eggsy will be the first to admit that he feels...settled, safe, when he spares a glance in between filling vodka-lemonades and tumblers of whisky and sees Harry’s eyes - calculating but full of fond warmth - tracking him from across the room.

He always returns the look with a small grin of his own and the occasional cheeky wink, and tries to ignore the fizzling, tight feeling in his chest when Harry’s own smiles grow a bit wider, more genuine, eyes crinkling behind his glasses.

It takes Eggsy a long time to recognise the feeling for what it is. To acknowledge what it means for him to look up with a sense of excited expectation when the door to the pub opens, when he hears the clack of expensive shoes in the hall outside of his door, the gut-wrenching affection he feels when an intricately crafted crib appears in his parents’ front room.

The way his blood sings when Harry squeezes his shoulder, large palm lingering and fingers brushing against the skin of his neck as they say goodbye on the edges of the forest.

It occurs to him one night as he’s letting himself into his flat, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth, and the realisation makes him fall back against the door.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, and buries his face in his hands. JB hops up onto the bed in the corner of the room, turning in circles before settling down, and gives Eggsy an extremely judgmental look. “Shut it,” he says without any heat, and slides down the door to settle on the ground with a thump.

He's _fucked._

 

ooo

 

Eggsy thinks that realising you’re in love with a formidable forest spirit - someone who’s a part of one of the most powerful supernatural infrastructures in the entire fucking world and only occasionally holds a physical form - would affect the way he acts day to day around said forest spirit.

He honestly doesn’t know whether it’s better or worse that absolutely none of their interactions are any different, save for the awareness in the back of his mind that seems to magnify all of the warmth and affection that builds in his chest whenever he’s in Harry’s presence.

He’s tried his best to rationalise it as a side effect of being around magic on an ever increasing basis, but that theory is quickly thrown out the window once the other Kingsmen start coming - literally - out of the woodwork.

To say he’s surprised when Merlin shows up at his mum and dad’s place one day is an understatement, but the man just pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and rolls his eyes at Eggsy’s gobsmacked expression before gently pushing him aside and entering the flat. The next hour and a half is a blur of increasingly specific questions about what their needs are for their growing family, and about their feelings on an open concept living area.

Eggsy also has the distinct pleasure of meeting Roxy, a Kingsman who’d chosen to manifest in the form of a young woman around Eggsy’s age. They get along like a house on fire almost from the start, and much to the fascination of the purveyors of the Black Prince, she also becomes a routine presence in the pub. She and Harry seem to be friendly enough, though Roxy does tend to defect to Harry as if he’s her superior. Which begs the question of how powerful, exactly, Harry is.

She also becomes a staple in the Unwin home, frequently asking Michelle for her opinion of various items of home decor, and those are conversations that Eggsy generally tunes out during or wanders off in the middle of in search of Harry or on a quest to badger Merlin.

None of them quite understand the importance of the visit - nor of Merlin’s continuing association with their family outside of the forest - until one day, when they’re led by Harry down a familiar path. It’s been cleared cleanly, though, with a gate at the front where the boundaries of the woods begin and a small mailbox attached to a tree trunk.

The path leads to a large swatch of land, the grass meticulously groomed and a small, elaborate garden in a plot between two beautiful houses, one slightly larger than the other. Lee has to keep a hold on Michelle when her knees go weak at the sight of them, all three Unwins recognising the land for what it truly is.

“You can’t,” Eggsy manages around the lump of emotion building in his throat. He seems to be the only one capable of words at the moment, and he barely is, at that.

“We can,” Merlin asserts, clapping a hand on Eggsy’s back. “And we have done, so tough shite.”

When he begins to steer Eggsy towards the smaller of the two homes, he throws a desperate look over his shoulder at Harry, who’s watching with an unreadable expression. But Eggsy can feel that old familiar warmth spreading across his shoulders, and when he steps over the threshold of the home - _his_ home - it feels like sunlight under his skin.

 

ooo

 

Life is wonderful, almost idyllic, really, for a while. It doesn’t take long at all for the three of them to move into their respective new homes, given the sparse amount of belongings they had been able to accumulate in the small space of their old residences. Eggsy loves his home with an immediacy and depth that surprises him, but there’s no denying how this home has been tailor-made to suit his needs and desires, not to mention the immeasurable feeling of safety that comes over him whenever he comes through the door.

(He and Harry have a proper row over the state of the first floor bathroom, though. Harry apparently sees nothing wrong with putting a god damned stuffed _dog_ on the mantle above the toilet, and Eggsy almost quite literally has the piss scared out of him the first time he opens the door and sees the little bugger staring at him mournfully.

Eggsy is insistent that the thing goes, but Harry is adamant, citing that, “Mr. Pickle was a noble and wonderful guardian of the forest for twelve long years, and deserves to be recognised for his service to the Kingsman.”

“It’s the toilet!” Eggsy had raged, to no avail.)

All of that carefully crafted paradise comes crashing down one warm summer evening as Eggsy’s making his way home from a shift at the pub, and a body lurches out of an alleyway and slams him into a lamppost.

Dean’s lackies melt their way out of the shadows and into the orange-yellow glow cast down from the lamp, while their leader fists his hands in Eggsy’s collar and lifts him off the pavement.

“I’ve been waitin’ for a moment to get you by yourself,” Dean says, licking his lips with anticipation. “You’s a hard man to come by, Muggsy. Spend all your time on your knees for them wrinkly buggers, then?”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy chokes, grappling at Dean’s wrist.

Dean puts on a considering look. “Nah,” he eventually decides, and shoves Eggsy’s head back against the post, hard. “Not today, Mug. I ain’t that desperate.”

“Great,” Eggsy grits out, steeling himself for what’s about to happen next. He throws his head back, careful to avoid striking the tender spot on the back, and throws it forward until his forehead collides with an ugly crack against Dean’s. It makes his vision swim, makes him feel nauseated and pained, but it has the desired effect of making Dean release his grip and stagger away.

Not one to forego such a chance, Eggsy ignores the sickening churn of his stomach and bolts, fast as he can, in the direction of home. The busy sounds of London life - cars honking, brakes screeching, the distant thumping bass of club music and the chatter of night owls still wandering the streets in search of a drink - all fade to nothing under the desperate thrum of his heart and the ragged sound of his breathing as he all but sprints through the streets and towards the forest.

It only takes a minute before he hears the thunder of footsteps in pursuit, and he’s forced to pick up his pace. He vaults over fences, using his momentum to scramble up the bonnet of one car and run across the roofs of at least a dozen others before he can throw himself at a low hanging branch and heft himself over a large brick wall.

He hits the ground with a thump, rolling out of the drop and doing his best to pick up speed again. He’s sprinting across the road without looking, ignoring the blaring sounds of a horn as a Clio drives past and nearly strikes him, because the boundary of the forest is looming ahead, trees straining towards him and almost urging him closer, faster, _get to safety -_

A body slams into his and forces him down into the grass and dirt, rattling his already aching skull. The feeling of a fist slamming into his temple is, unfortunately, not terribly unfamiliar, but it still hurts like a bitch and makes his vision swim.

The next strike hits him in his jaw, filling his mouth with blood as his lip splits open, and effectively distracting him from the fact that all of his limbs are being firmly held down against the earth by Dean’s minions while the man himself straddles Eggsy’s chest, hell bent on beating him into unconsciousness.

He can’t help but struggle against their hold, no matter how futile it might seem, but the accumulating nausea and pain leave him feeling weak and Dean’s continued body blows make his muscles cramp and the world go black around the edges.

There’s a loud, nearly deafening crack, and when Eggsy cranes his head back against the grass during a blessed reprieve from Dean’s hits, he sees that an enormous tree has split straight down the middle, smoke trailing out of the crevice.

“Step away from the young man,” comes Harry’s voice, rumbling and sounding as if he has a tenuous control on his rage, “or I shall make you live to regret touching him for the few moments I allow you to live past this very moment.”

The grips on his ankles and wrists disappear, followed quickly by the sound of retreating footsteps. Dean remains a heavy weight on his gut, and if the hand he wraps around Eggsy’s throat is any indication, he has no intention of leaving.

His fingers squeeze and Eggsy chokes and scrapes his fingernails down the back of Dean’s hands and arms, desperately trying to gasp for air.

There’s the sound, distant to his ears, of quick footsteps, like someone is taking long and powerful strides towards them, and when Dean’s weight is suddenly gone and the pressure around his throat disappears it’s completely overwhelming.

Eggsy can only curl into his own body and wince with every wracking, hoarse cough that scrapes its way out of his abused throat, and it takes all of his effort to roll onto his front and lift his gaze to the edge of the forest.

All of Dean’s goons are trussed up and tied against trees while Dean himself is being dragged, kicking and screaming, to the open crack in the tree trunk. The vines pull him all the way to the base and then suddenly stop their movement.

A shadowy outline fills in from the split in the bark, and a familiar figure steps out and leans menacingly over Dean’s furious, shaking body. “I warned you,” Harry tells him calmly, and then snaps his fingers.

All at once, the vines pull taut and Dean goes flying into the centre of the hollowed oak with a scream. The tree gives an almighty groan and cleaves itself back together, bark knitting up until it’s almost impossible to tell there was ever a split to begin with.

The silence in the wake of this is damn near deafening.

Harry turns to the men still tied up to the trees. “May this be your last warning. Leave the Unwins alone. Am I understood?”

Each man gives a desperate nod, and when the vines finally release them, not a single one wastes any time in getting their feet beneath them and running away as fast as they can manage.

Eggsy flops back against the grass, thankful for a moment to press his aching head against the cool earth and breath slowly, steadily, without Dean’s considerable weight crushing his lungs.

“Eggsy,” comes a gentle voice, followed by an even more careful touch against his forehead. “Eggsy, can you hear me?”

He hums in acknowledgement and opens his eyes into slits, peering upwards into Harry’s concerned face. “That were mental,” he murmurs, gesturing weakly towards the tree where he’s imprisoned Dean. “A bit much, innit?”

Harry gives him a strange little half smile. “I would do much worse for you,” he confides, and then reaches under Eggsy’s arms to help him to his feet.

“Ohh, fuck,” Eggsy groans, sagging into Harry’s side when one of his ribs gives an especially unpleasant twinge. “Jesus, remind me to stop pickin’ fights with people bigger than me.”

“If I thought there was a single hope of you listening to me,” Harry says, tone reproving but his hands careful as he brushes blades of grass out of Eggsy’s hair and off his back and shoulders. “I would remind you every day, on the hour.”

“Guess I’m just more trouble than I’m worth, eh?” Eggsy says, the attempt at casual humor ruined by the way his voice goes tight at the end, leading him into a wracking cough.

Harry sighs, sounding terribly put upon, and curves his hands around the bruised line of Eggsy’s throat. His palms radiate that gorgeous, soothing warmth that Eggsy has always felt in his presence, magic coursing underneath his skin as Harry heals his bruises and his sore muscles. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the feeling of pain being replaced by something so much more pleasant.

Harry shifts on his feet. He clears his throat, and curls one hand around the expanse of Eggsy’s ribs to heal the bruises and cracks in the bones. “Jesus fuck,” Eggsy slurs, body going lax from the onset of sensation. “That feels bloody amazing.”

“Quite,” Harry agrees, voice sounding slightly strangled. He seems to hesitate, strangely, before cupping Eggsy’s cheek and pushing magic into the aching bones of his face. The headache he’s been harbouring since the first blow was dealt dissipates in a fissure of golden feeling, leaving him feeling sated and - he realises with growing horror - half hard in his trousers.

Close as he and Harry are standing (and when did they get this close, he doesn’t even _remember_ ), there’s no way the other man hasn’t noticed.

“Shit,” Eggsy mutters, and tries to pull his face out of Harry’s grasp.

“Don’t,” Harry whispers, and Eggsy’s body freezes up completely. “Don’t...move. I, I’m not finished.”

Fingers trail across the apple of Eggsy’s cheek and down the straight line of his nose. A thumb rubs into the divot between his mouth and his nostrils before tracing the cupid’s bow of Eggsy’s upper lip. The pad of his thumb slips gently over the considerably sized cut that splits his lips open.

When the magic heals him this time, it feels like a kiss.

“Harry,” he says, voice cracking in the worst way.

“I tried so very hard to stay away,” Harry tells him, and Eggsy opens his eyes to meet the man’s gaze. He hadn’t even realised they’d slipped shut. “I never wanted to interfere with your life more than I already had. But you were so...bright, Eggsy. Even at a young age, I could see the goodness in you.”

“I remember.”

Harry’s mouth quirks up. “I thought it best not to manifest in front of you again, in the hopes that maybe it would keep my presence from affecting your life too adversely. I’ve seen the effect that interaction with the Kingsmen can have on a man’s social standing, the worst of which has ended with a public flogging or hanging. And I…” he stops and visibly swallows, looking nervous and disquieted. “I find I would do anything to keep you safe, Eggsy.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, but ducks his face into Harry’s palm and lays a gentle kiss into the skin, wary of the magic bristling beneath.

“My dear boy,” Harry sighs, and cups Eggsy’s face in both of his hands. “I’m terribly afraid to inform you that I’ve grown overly invested in your personal happiness.”

Eggsy deflates. “Right,” he says, and pulls back slightly, trying to put some distance between the two of them. “I get it, yeah.”

“No, Eggsy,” Harry says, and pulls him back in. “I’m sorry to say that it’s apparent you don’t.”

“Can we just...stop talkin’ in circles, bruv?” Eggsy asks, eyes cutting off to the side and his mouth twisting unhappily. “Cos I’ve had me one hell of a bad night, yeah, and having you confuse the shit outta me with all this cryptic talk isn’t exactly-”

Harry silences him quite effectively by pressing their mouths together. He cradles Eggsy’s face gently, thumbs pressing into the sensitive space beneath his ears and making him shudder.

They pull apart after only a few seconds, but Harry keeps him close, their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. Eggsy opens his eyes and sees that a vibrant thrush of wildflowers have sprouted up around their feet, blossoming impossibly in the darkness and their petals blooming wide. Several fat, bright red roses burst on their steps, peering up at the two of them with anticipation.

“Oh,” Eggsy whispers, and slides his own hands around the tapered slope of Harry’s waist. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“Excellent,” Harry breathes, and swoops in to kiss him hard enough to steal his breath.

It feels like sunlight, all around.


End file.
